


Stare at the Camera

by DustToDust



Series: Models and Cameras [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Community: asscreedkinkmeme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:21:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1736000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustToDust/pseuds/DustToDust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik has gotten used to many things when he was forced to step to the other side of the camera, but the way Altair still seems to follow him from shoot to shoot is not one of those things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stare at the Camera

**Author's Note:**

> Vizeau had some drool worthy swimsuits in 2010. Kinkmeme asked for Altair to seduce Malik while wearing one of them. I can't remember which, all I know is I found the [robe](http://tinypic.com/r/11azj2t/8) and said, "YES!" The other swim suit can be seen [here](http://tinypic.com/r/13zzx20/8). I had to really search to find these pictures. So appreciate them.

Lucy Stillman hates Malik.

There is no other explanation he can think of for why he’s the only photographer she ever sends to handle shoots with Altair Ibn-La’Ahad. The woman has plenty of other people working for her who would have _gladly_ jumped at the chance to work with the man who is quickly becoming one of the top male models in the country. He knows for a fact that Rebecca had been _begging_ their boss for this shoot as soon as it’d been announced.

Claiming she is short-handed is just a lie used to cover the fact that she’s a sadistic bitch who hates him.

"Enough," Malik lets his arm and camera drop down ignoring the slight burn of exertion that comes from holding and using it with one hand. It would probably be easier if he let Lucy buy him one of those bracket arms she always insists he try, but Malik refuses to even consider it. It’s bad enough that he has to use a release cord. "Get changed."

Malik is a professional. He’s seen everything the fashion industry has and rarely bats an eye at the things he has to photograph, but even he is being put to the test by this particular line of clothing. More like cloth, with a bits of string artistically attached.

According to the sales rep, Altair is wearing a swimsuit. According to Malik, Altair is wearing a sack on a piece of string. A sack that is far too small to hold everything he has, and if the relief in the man’s normally intense eyes is anything to go by it’s just as uncomfortable to wear as it is to look at. Malik feels no pity in feeling smug about it and forcing the man to pose longer than he really needed to.

Altair straightens from his practiced slouch and walks back to where clothing has been set up. Malik concentrates on his camera and judging the amount of natural light left in the day instead of the man's firm, bare ass walking away. His assistant --Malik hasn’t bothered to ask for a name-- stares after the model with the particularly dazed look that he’s far too familiar with. If Malik were in a more charitable mood he’d feel pity for the idiot.

"Are you going to adjust my lighting or are you going to continue to try and fuck the model with your eyes?" The man snaps back and his face flushes bright red in embarrassment. Malik stares him down until he starts making the adjustments needed to compensate for the setting sun. It doesn’t matter to him if the man’s got a crush or is lusting after Altair, but it’s not going to get him very far in the industry. Models can’t really relax around people that are so obviously eye-fucking them every second of the shoot.

Malik checks his memory, there’s still plenty left but it gives him something to do while he waits for the change and whatever other primping Altair needs done for the last outfit. The rep sent out with the clothing line is being particularly fussy over it in a way that gets her hands all over the model in a very obvious way that Malik doesn’t actually miss at all from his days as a model. Biting back the remarks at the people paying him an exorbitant sum of money for a few hours of posing had been the second most stressful part of the job.

The first being Altair, a competitor that Malik had the misfortune of meeting very early in his too short career and never seemed to be able to shake off. Not even now that Malik is relegated to hiding behind the camera lens.

Altair eventually comes out and Malik almost gapes like a fish. The man is wearing a piece of smooth looking black cloth masquerading as a robe. A hood shades his eyes leaving his strong chin and full lips exposed. Which draws the eye naturally to the scar on his lips. 'Exotic' has been thrown around about that far too often for Malik's liking. 

The robe itself covers Altair's front and backside, but gapes open on each side. It frames his broad shoulders, corded arms, and muscular legs. There’s no tie or strip of cloth on the side to keep if from sliding further open, and it’s obvious this piece needs nothing worn under it. A thick black belt is all that’s holding the thing in place.

Malik wants to bite those shoulders. Wants to run his hand up those thighs and watch Altair grow hard though the robe. In the brief seconds it takes Altair to take his place in front of the camera Malik finds himself wanting to do a great many obscene things.

He doesn't let those thought continue for long, and does not even consider how very easy it would be to get those things. What he does instead is look back to his camera and say, “You look ridiculous.”

"I _feel_ ridiculous," Altair says in obvious irritation, but the emotion doesn’t show on the part of his face that’s visible as he leans against the prop wall. Angling himself without direction, familiar enough with what Malik wants to move without instruction. It’s the first complaint the man has voiced all day.

Malik snaps the pictures. Keeping his eyes on the larger than normal screen of his camera as he uses the release cord to snap picture after picture. He uses the effort of keeping a steady arm to distract him from the very appealing image Altair's making.

It took Malik months to figure out the best way to hold a camera with one hand, but he’d persisted in it until he found a way that worked for him. His days as a model had ended with the loss of his left arm and the horrific scars left behind by the operation that had saved his life, but he was damned if he was going to give up on the entire industry just because of it. He knew far too many people in it and too much about it to go into something else this late in life.

"Tilt your head up," Malik instructs and moves to the left before frowning at the way the light blocks out most of the detail of Altair. He’s got a filter that will cut that out, but this is the last outfit and Malik’s ready to be done. He circles the other way until he can get a good enough picture. Altair turns his head to follow him. Giving him the shot that the industry always seems to want from him. A placid expression with the touch of a sneer that emphasizes the scar people seem to find alluring, and an intense look from brown eyes that are so light they often translate as gold on print.

It’s a dangerous look that designers love and the public eats up. Lucy swears, Malik has unfortunately overheard, that Malik is the only one who's been able to capture it well.

"Hands up, above you- Yeah," Malik takes a series of pictures as Altair stretches up, slowly enough for Malik to get a good shot of the action. He stops when his arms are crossed at the elbows and hooked over the top of the wall. He’s leaning against it enough that the sandbags propping it up are being tested. He rolls his head around lazily to give Malik a shot of him looking in each direction.

The robe gapes dangerously below the belt. The cloth molding itself to his front and showing off a good portion of his ass. It’s the most clothed Altair has been the entire shoot, but Malik doesn’t think even the sack on a string had been this revealing. Malik takes the shot to force himself to blink, the assistant makes an obvious noise that is quite frankly embarrassing.

Malik looks away from his camera at the man who is looking at Altair like he’s starving. His duties completely forgotten, and it’s a pity. The kid had actually started the shoot off alright, but that means very little against the really unprofessional behavior he’s showing now.

"Right," Malik takes a few more photos before dropping his arm. He’s already got the shots he needs, these last few are just to pad out the proofs that are going to be poured over later from this shoot. "I’m done with you now. Go put something decent on."

Altair’s lips twitch as he straightens before turning, face impassive and utterly unimpressed as he sweeps past Malik’s assistant who is nearly drooling at their feet. Malik turns to his camera case, allowing it to rest in the soft interior to give Altair time to get away before rounding on the assistant. “If you’re finished getting yourself in on the wrong end of a sexual harassment suit, get started on packing the lights away. We’re done here for now.”

The man leaps at his words, but his eyes keep trailing to where wardrobe is. Hands slowing eventually, “I wasn’t-“

"We’re on the beach, there’s bound to be a strip club nearby you can find to stare at the pretty whatever it is you’re attracted to on _your_ time, and not on _mine_ when you’re being paid to work," being looked at is part and parcel of being a model. Models are paid to be attractive props for people to stare at, but there’s a difference between looking and _looking_. Strippers at least get paid extra for the _looking_.

The lenses and release cable come off easily and are tucked away quickly as a sullen silence rises up behind him. Only the sound of the few lights they brought out folding down breaking it. Malik checks that his gear is secure before closing the cases and nesting them together, threading a strap through the handles so that he can carry them all in one trip. An obvious thing that seems to go right over his assistant’s head as he reaches out to take them.

"No!" Malik snaps at the now sullen assistant. His elation at the shoot being over doing very little to ease his irritation. "I’m perfectly capable of carrying my _own_ camera, you imbecile. Now can I trust you to carry those lights on your own, or are you going to be too busy leering at the pretty faces to watch where you’re going?"

The man flushes red again and mumbles something Malik doesn’t bother listening to as he trundles away with the rest of the equipment. He’s probably going to quit as soon as they get back to the office, and then Lucy will have to lecture him about breaking the help. Again. And then he’ll have to point out what a mistake it is to hire young, sexually frustrated people with the bad habit of drooling over the models. Again.

"Pretty face?" Altair is still wearing that ridiculous robe despite the fact that he’s had enough time to change out of it as he walks up to Malik. The hood pulled up, but not far enough to obscure his piercing eyes or damnable smirk. The asshole _knows_ what he looks like as he leans into Malik’s space.

Malik scowls, not liking the fact that he can be read so easily by just one man, “What do you want now?”

"You already know the answer to that, Malik," Altair crosses his arms and poses as if the camera is still on him. The natural sunlight highlights the muscles in his arms, and shines off the remnants of the oil used to bring out the definition of his body. His voice is an open invitation, and Malik is surprised to hear it. He’d thought this part of their interactions over with long ago. "The question is, what do _you_ want?"

"A steak dinner, my couch, and no annoying models pestering me for the rest of the night," the glib answer rolls easily off his tongue even as something inside of him clenches with want. Always has. Altair is an extremely attractive man, and Malik knows that if it hadn’t been for his unfortunate attitude he would’ve said yes the first time the man had propositioned him. "All of which I will have as soon as you’re gone."

"Liar," Altair steps closer. The edges of the robe brushing against Malik’s legs. "Your eyes only get that intense when you’re forcing something down, Malik."

Altair fairly purrs his name and if he leans any closer they will be touching. The other man has always liked to crowd into Malik’s space like that. Using his body as much as possible to make up for the way he’s actually pretty terrible with words. Malik used to find it his most effective tactic. The one thing he’d had the hardest time saying no to, but that was before the accident.

"No, Altair," Malik steps back out of the other man’s reach, and braces himself for more. Altair has never been one to easily accept ‘no’ as an answer to anything in his life.

Which makes what happens next all the more shocking. Altair closes his eyes tightly and steps back, the flirtatious act dropping lightning fast. Something that looks like regret filling his eyes when he opens them again to look at Malik, “Of course, I’m sorry.”

Malik is so stunned he says nothing as Altair turns and walks away. A humble acceptance of Malik’s refusal? An apology? That is _not_ the man he’s used to working with at all. Not like the arrogant bastard who had seemed to be booked at too many of the same gigs Malik was. Their coloring complimentary enough to a few companies’ products. 

Malik thinks back to the last shoot he’d photographed Altair at. The apology he’d given then equally humble, but without the obvious cause of this time. It makes Malik wonder if that had been for the accident, had been truly meant. If it was the reason why Altair had backed off just now.

More likely it’d been the mention of a steak dinner rather than anything else. He smirks as he carefully places his camera bag in the car. Malik isn’t a model anymore, _he_ doesn’t have to worry about weight. Altair on the other hand still does. Slim, like sticks, is the favored look in fashion. The only meal the other man has to look forward to will be a nice salad. Light on the dressing, if it’s even allowed at all.

Malik’s nearly forgotten what that was like thankfully. He's gained pounds to prove that, but he hasn't actually let up on his exercise regimen and the weight suits him as muscles. Needed muscle now that he has to compensate for his missing left arm and keep enough money in the bank to finish paying for what little of the therapy he goes through that hasn't been covered for him.

He doesn’t make nearly as much money as a photographer but it's enough that he doesn’t truly care. The work is more reliable and the working conditions are far better. Plus, he works even less with Altair now than he ever had when he was in front of the camera. 

It’s not the best, but it’s enough for Malik. He makes sure of that.

~

It had been a shoot with Harley Davidson. Altair and Malik had both been kitted out in leathers and boots. Altair’s rugged under torn plaid, a cowboy or a redneck. Both prime markets for the company. Malik had been in new leathers with crisp, almost professional shirts and slicked back hair. The yuppie look.

The shoot had gone relatively well for them. Neither of them argued, mostly because they weren’t going to appear together and were thus being shot separately. Fewer chances of interaction before one of the reps for the company, charmed by Altair no doubt, had suggested they take the bikes out and actually ride them at the end of the shoot. Something to do for fun more than anything else as no pictures taken of that would come out well.

Malik’s memory of the day gets sketchy after that. He remembers Altair’s challenging smirk, remembers the feeling of irritation and the pricking of his pride, the rumble of the bike between his legs, and the horrible moment when Altair —too close to shout something over the wind— started to slide.

His next clear memory after that is waking up in the hospital. His career a mangled ruin that perfectly matched the ruins of his left arm.

~

Malik opens the folder of Altair’s last shoot on Tuesday. He’s put off having to deal with them long enough, and Lucy is getting antsy about getting them so they can be proofed. She has a half dozen people waiting and ready to clean up and alter the pictures, but Malik prefers to do that himself. 

His hand is far lighter with the Photoshop than anyone else, and it makes his work far more real than any other photographer’s. Even if Lucy will still send the originals to the Photoshop department. He’ll at least have his own nearly untouched copies for his portfolio.

Mostly, all he does is adjust light levels. Bringing the levels down or up until the bronze of Altair’s skin looks close to right. Until his eyes look the gold that he’s overheard others marvel over. The scars on the man’s body he leaves alone. They’ll be mostly removed before publishing, but he won’t be the one to do it.

"So this is what’s gotten you into such a fantastic mood," Kadar’s voice comes out of nowhere startling enough to make Malik jump and he would have spun around to glare at him if a hand on the seat didn’t stop him. Kadar leans over his shoulder to examine the screen more closely and whistles lowly. "Someone really hates you, brother. If he was wearing _that_ ," Malik is altering the photos of the sack on a string, "all day I’m surprised you didn’t kill someone."

There’s not many photos of this outfit that will be decent enough for use in most publications. He knows that the company has their own website though that’s come under fire a time or two for the risqué photos they use. So the fact that in quite a few of the pictures Altair’s dick is almost falling out won’t phase them.

"I almost killed the idiot, does that count?" Malik reaches up and pushes his brother’s head back. The younger man resists briefly before giving in with a bright laugh that manages to draw a smile from Malik. "I thought you were going out?"

"I am," Kadar steps back and Malik notes he’s wearing his better clothes. Clean, free of rips and tear that aren’t intentional, and just plain enough that he can easily fit in at almost any kind of bar or club. None of it so costly that he can’t afford to replace any parts lost to the night or when he can’t find them after crawling out of whatever bed he ends up sleeping in for the night. "I just wanted to see what has you trying to murder the computer with your eyes."

"What do you care? It’s not your computer," Malik turns the chair around enough he can kick out at Kadar. Aiming him towards the door and the night life that he spends far too much time planning during the day. Time he should be spending on his classes. "Get the hell out of here, Kadar."

"You know you might not be so grumpy all the time if you just stop protesting and hit it," Kadar says only once he’s out of hitting range. His grin is unrepentant as he walks backwards to the door. 

"What?" Malik growls, eyes narrowing on his only kin left in the world.

"You heard me," Kadar says with a smug little smirk that Malik has no idea where he learned it from. Certainly not from _him_. "Just fuck him out of your system already. Seriously, you're starting to obsess and it's getting creepy."

"I am not obsessing, or grumpy," Malik denies and refuses to look back at the computer screen. Malik snatches up a glass of half-drunk water and holds it up threateningly. "But you know what would make me grumpy? Having to clean glass shards out of your head."

Kadar cackles as he darts away, the door slamming shut on a jumble of words that Malik’s probably better off not having heard. He sighs and drains the glass before turning back to his computer. There’s only one set of photos left, and it’s the ones that have had him dreading opening the files.

It’s a plain black, hooded robe. The most decent piece in the files, but seeing the unaltered photos of Altair wearing it effects Malik just as much as it had during the shoot. Malik scowls and focuses on the light levels. Trying to keep his eyes from lingering too long on the muscular arms and legs left bare by the open sides.

His failure sends Malik to the bathroom for a quick shower only halfway through, and does nothing to improve Malik’s mood.

~

Altair had gotten out of the accident with scrapped skin and a few stark black stitches that eventually led to the alluring scar that would increase his fame. He's accepted Malik's words, drugged and slurred as they'd been at first. Not saying anything to defend himself or snap back against the insults Malik hurled. Not in the hospital room, or the few physical therapy sessions he'd wandered into before he'd been told to leave for his own safety.

Malik had raged at Altair for a good long while. Had refused to listen, to take what he knew was going to be a really shitty apology, refused to even look at the man unless he was throwing a punch his way.

It had lasted until Malik learned enough to start taking pictures. Something that had been a long enduring hobby for him before, not something he thought he would do professionally. His anger had faded then. Bit by bit as he was forced to look. At Altair because Lucy was a bitch who hated him, and he _had_ to look at the man to get the pictures right. Had to look and listen to the awkward words the man said. 

Feeling his anger ebb bit by bit as he accepted that accidents are accidents, and it took two men to wind up in the mess of metal and limbs they'd been in that day. It was hard to stay so utterly furious at someone who only looked at him with enough regret and shame to drown in. 

Malik didn't forgive Altair. Forgiveness didn't come into the equation when there was no fault, or fault could be equally shared after all.

~

"Why do you hate me?" Malik asks as he looks over the details of his next shoot. Another swimsuit shoot with a few models he’s worked with before, and, because Lucy hates him, Altair is one of them.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about," Lucy says without looking up from her tablet. Her fingers flying across the screen. "You were specifically requested for this one. Stop foisting your paranoia off on me."

 _Liar_. Malik snarls wordlessly and stalks out. Ignoring the jealous looks Rebecca shoots his way, and the very unsubtle way her boyfriend is holding her down by a firm grip in the back of her belt as he continues to answer the phones. Shaun shoves the phone between his shoulder and ear and holds up a paper with map instructions printed on it.

"Don’t give me that look," Malik takes it and turns his attention to Rebecca, hiking his thumb back to Lucy’s office, "You want the jobs talk to _her_. She’s the one insisting I take them."

Rebecca’s eyes narrow in frustration. “She won’t let me even talk about it!”

"Have a good day!" Shaun hangs up the phone with completely false cheer, and his voice immediately goes back down into his usual drawl of sarcasm. "Well, maybe if you stopped referring to the models a ‘meat hunks’ you’d be allowed to work with the pretty boys more often, love."

"That was one time!" Rebecca protests loudly. "And it was a Gaga influenced shoot. The dude was literally wearing a hunk of meat! What else was I going to call him?"

"Preferably nothing," Shaun waves his free hand over at Malik. "You know how I get insecure with all the eye candy around."

"Aw, don’t worry babe," Rebecca melts out of her chair and into Shaun’s lap. Wrapping her arms around his neck in a way that looks closer to a wrestling move than an act of affection. "Your pasty white, English ass is still the only one I want to do more than just smack."

"You’re the soul of romance," Malik folds the map up on the desk before turning to leave, because that _is_ romantic for them. Malik doesn’t want to stick around for the borderline pornographic make out session that’s sure to follow the declaration. He’s been scarred by it enough as it is.

~

The suits are baggy and colorful thankfully. Board shorts mostly, and most of the pictures he takes are staged scenes of a group of men playing at the beach. No direct eye contact with the photographer, and the models mostly entertain themselves. Turning at Malik’s barked directions on occasion. The rep wants a relaxed and natural shoot though so Malik’s direction is rarely needed.

Rarely.

"Ezio, if you’d stop feeling Connor up?" The model grins unrepentantly and backs away from Connor who gives Malik a stoic look that has enough hints of gratefulness in it that he knows the touch has really been bothering the man. "Go bother Yusuf."

Yusuf is on the other side of the volleyball net set up for the shoot and grabs Ezio into a headlock before he’s even all the way under it. Desmond spins one of the volleyballs on his finger and grins as Connor unsubtly moves putting Desmond between him and Ezio who is calling Yusuf a volley of unflattering names. Malik takes a few pictures of the horseplay, and Desmond’s unconscious play with the ball.

Salai is on the sidelines, leaning back on his hands and still pouting over the fact that it’s not a solo shoot. Malik takes a single shot of that even though he knows the man’s tantrum and refusal to play has already been noted by the rep. No amount of cajoling by his agent has induced the model to work for the money that is going to be taken back if he doesn’t make it into at least one of the spreads picked.

Altair is standing on the other side of the net, thumbs hooked casually in the band of his shorts, and staring right at Malik. Malik snaps a picture on instinct and scowls because they’ve all been specifically asked to _not_ look at the camera. “Desmond, serve the ball. Might as well use the damn net since it’s up.”

The models move into a loose team formation, uneven because Salai still refuses to move, and Malik ignores the looks that Altair continues to send his way as the models use exaggerated movements to play the most awkward game of volleyball ever.

~

Ezio lounges over the trunk of Malik’s car and bats too wide eyes up at him as he refuses to move. “Don’t you need to return the clothing?”

The rep sent with the suits has been almost rabid about keeping track of all the shorts. Nearly taking Connor’s head off when he looked like he was going to grab a drink before changing. Ezio waves airily, as if the fact that the sharp eyed woman who will hunt him down is of no concern. “There’s only one small changing area, and the others are all lined up for it. I’ll change after they’re done.”

"Get off my car," Malik carefully sets down his gear and glares down at the man. "You’re getting prints all over it."

Ezio rolls up so that his sunblock covered body isn’t against the car, but he’s still sitting on the trunk. “You always leave so fast after shoots, Malik! Aren’t we friends anymore?”

"No, Ezio, we were never friends," Malik narrows his eyes in suspicion. "What do you want?"

"I cannot want to just talk?" Ezio asks with an expression of hurt resentment that Malik almost buys as real for a few seconds.

"Ezio," Altair’s voice clears up that uncertainty fast though. "Maria will have your balls if you don’t get changed now."

"Good talk!" Ezio jumps off the trunk and claps Malik on the shoulder as he passes, and doesn’t look back.

He should’ve known when he saw Altair talking to Ezio, and the other model had looked serious for a few moments. Malik turns to scowl at Altair who had to have physically beaten the others to get changed first. “What do you want?”

Altair walks closer and starts to bend when he reaches the gear Malik had set down, but apparently seems to think twice about it when he straightens up. Good for him, Malik would’ve had to punch him somewhere unfortunate if he’d tried to touch his camera. Altair buries his hands in the pockets of his plain white hoodie. “A steak dinner, my couch, and a frustrating photographer to share it with.”

Refusal is automatic by now, but sticks on his tongue. _Fuck it out of your system._

Kadar’s words from a week ago come back at the worst time. Malik has spent more time than he’s proud of looking over the last photo shoot, and it’s clear he needs to do _something_ before he sprains his right hand. Altair looks vaguely hopeful, but is also very obviously steeling himself for rejection. Even after going through the trouble of delaying Malik long enough to ask.

Malik wonders why he still bothers trying.

"Fine," Malik enjoys the slow spread of surprised shock that unhinges Altair’s jaw. He pops the trunk and sets his gear inside. Making sure it’s secure and won’t go tumbling around as he drives before turning back to Altair, still gaping like an idiot. "You’ll have to lead."

"I, yes," Altair looks rattled as he nods, and Malik can’t meet his eyes without feeling guilty for some reason he doesn’t want to study. Altair clears his throat and nods to a truck that Malik already knows is his. He looks over his shoulder twice as he walks over to it. Uncertainty melting away slowly.

Malik gets into his car, altered with more money than should have been needed, for his needs, and follows. He wonders how much of the drive Altair spends looking in the rear view mirror.

~

Altair’s apartment is open and neat. He has few things, and they’re all very much in a precise order. Malik would say it was devoid of personality, but that in and of itself fits with Altair perfectly.

"I don’t actually have steak," Altair admits after a few seconds of standing in the doorway of what looks like the kitchen. Malik turns to give a look at the man’s back. He has the good grace to look embarrassed when he turns around and holds up a takeout menu. "Chinese?"

"General Tso’s," Malik replies and then nods at the one couch in the apartment set before a glass coffee table. "Is the couch going to turn out to be a lie as well?"

"Yes, it’s cloth stretched out over cardboard," Altair has his phone out and is already dialing. He wanders into the kitchen with it pressed to his ear. "Go sit down, asshole."

The couch is actually comfortable, and Malik is feeling a little hungry. Neither of those things are enough to knock aside the way his stomach is tightening up. A slow burn that started when he agreed to follow Altair home has all of his attention. It's probably for the best that Altair doesn’t have something that would take too long to cook.

"Water," Altair tosses a cold bottle and Malik catches it as the man puts another one on the coffee table, beads of condensation rolling down it slowly. He doesn’t sit down, though his eyes slide down Malik’s body in an obvious appraisal. He licks his lips quickly before looking back up and fixing his eyes on Malik. "Food’s paid for and should be here soon. Grab it when it comes? I need to jump in the shower. I’ve got sand in places it shouldn’t be."

"Go ahead, feel free to freshen up," Malik smirks at the glare he gets as Altair heads to another door. The bedroom he assumes. Malik twists off the top of the bottle and takes a long drink as he relaxes back into the couch. Ignoring the way the door was left open for the moment.

The attraction had been immediate, from the first shoot they’d been booked together. They’d both been relatively unknown, looking for the right shoots to get noticed by bigger names. Taking the low paying, sucky terms just for more exposure. Malik doesn’t even know what they were shooting for the first time they met. Just that they’d been hired to play the bookends for a woman more plastic than flesh. A particular look that sells for a certain crowd, but not Malik. He’d been far more interested in Altair. A feeling that had been mutual going by the intense looks he got between poses.

Sex was part and parcel of modeling. The work usually inherently sexual. Much of it Malik didn’t care for, but a few people would catch his interest enough to make it worth it to break his self-imposed rules of not fucking around with people he worked with. Altair ad been one of those rare exceptions. Right up until the shoot ended and he opened his mouth on an offer that had just rubbed Malik all wrong. His refusal to take Malik's disinterest after had only added fuel to that.

Malik would like to say any attraction he had ended when he found out what an arrogant, over confident ass Altair was, but he tries not to lie to himself too often. It’d just made Malik more infuriated, and more prone to rising to the bait Altair dangled in between unsubtle come ons. His interest was always obvious but unimportant next to the joy he took in shoving the fact he was getting noticed faster than Malik in his face. The conceit as he’d joked about keeping Malik as a kept man had been more than enough reason to keep rejecting him.

The knock on the door startles Malik out of the thoughts that have already started making him second guess coming along. The delivery boy isn’t even Asian, but the bag is steaming when he hands it over. Good enough for him. He lives down the street from a an Indian place run by the whitest, aging hippies he's ever seen before and their food tastes like it comes straight from India.

It smells good at least. Malik’s thinking about getting up to look for plates for the food when Altair comes out of his room. The creak of the floor announcing his presence as Malik settles back onto the couch. “Dinner is here.”

"It’ll reheat," Altair says in obvious unconcern, and when he comes around the couch Malik forgets all about the cartons on the coffee table.

Altair is wearing the hooded robe, the one from the shoot, and nothing else. It sticks to his body in a few spots where the water from his shower lingers. A few droplets linger on his arms as well. Malik _looks_ , can’t help it, and that slow burn blazes as he forgets any second guessing.

"They let you keep that?" Malik finally manages to say through a throat that feels too thick and dry.

"When I asked for it, they took it out of my pay," Altair’s lips turn up into a grin as he moves to stand over Malik. Leaning down and placing his hands on the back of the couch on either side of Malik’s head. "And after seeing the way you looked at me in it, I had to have it," Altair's voice is low, and the breath from his words brushes Malik's face. "It’s the _only_ time I’ve ever seen you look at me like that, Malik. Like I was something worth looking at, and I’ve been searching for that look from you for so very long."

The robe and position emphasize the muscles in Altair’s arms, the full lower lip of his mouth, and the strength of his body. Over and around Malik, surrounding him almost completely. Malik is every bit as transfixed by it as ever.

"I mean it," Altair says as he leans further forward, and Malik reaches up. His hand lands on exposed skin, and all thoughts of possibly stopping ends right there because he can feel the way Altair’s muscles move under the skin. Altair's breathing hitches and his voice gets even lower, "Always meant it. I want you."

"Get down here then," Malik urges Altair down into his lap. His knees settling on either side of Malik and his lips pressing in for a hungry kiss even before he’s all the way on the couch.

His mouth soft and teeth sharp against Malik’s mouth, and he opens his own to retaliate against the sharp nips. Altair _moans_ when he bites and traces the smooth scar on the right side of his mouth. His weight is heavy and the robe is as soft as it looks when Malik runs his hand up Altair’s back. His hands coming down off the couch to card through Malik’s hair and cradle his head. Refusing to let Malik break the kiss even as they both forget to breathe.

Malik bucks up, grinding against Altair. His dick hard and straining even the loose jeans he’s wearing. He runs his hand down to the side, dragging his fingers into skin and muscle left exposed. Going down and ghosting over the belt before going under the cloth. Altair is already growing hard and thick. He swells further in his hand and rolls up into his grip. Finally breaking their kiss to moan loudly. “ _Malik_.”

Flipping Altair over onto his back tests Malik’s muscles in a way they haven’t been in a while. The man goes easily though and spreads his left leg out to hang off the side of the couch. The front of the robe flipping up as he reaches down to stroke himself. Flushed dick fully hard as Malik tries to fumble his own jeans open without taking his eyes away from the sight below him.

Altair’s flushed, the hood falling back as he pumps up into his own hand. Eyes heavy lidded, but fixed hungrily on Malik’s hand pushing his pants down. It’s a relief to pull himself out and Malik groans as he strokes himself a few times before a hand fists into his shirt and _pulls_. Malik leans down, using his right arm to keep himself up above Altair. A wasted effort when the man refuses to stop until Malik’s laid out over him completely.

Weight pressing him down into the couch and Altair shifts under him until their dicks line up and Malik has to _bite_ to keep silent as he rolls his hips. Sliding them together between the tight press of their bodies in an almost blindingly wonderful drag of skin. Altair’s ragged breathing and panting echoing in his ears as they grind like a couple of teenagers. Quick and with no finesse at all. Just focused on getting off as quickly as possible.

"Fuck!" Altair arches up into it when Malik moves his mouth down his neck. Biting lightly, because bruises aren’t tolerated in their business. The leg not on the floor wrapping around him and grinding them closer. His hands bunch into the back of Malik’s shirt. Pulling the cloth up under his armpits before skating back down. Fingers tips digging in hard before going straight down to grip Malik’s ass under the jeans falling further down his legs with each delicious thrust. "Harder, Malik."

 _Harder_ sounds fucking perfect. _Harder_ involves pulling back enough to hook the stump of his left arm over the back of the couch, and bracing his right arm against the end of the couch. It’s not the best position, but neither of them needs much. The friction is too good, and Malik knows he’s not going to last as his dick moves over Altair's hot body. Neither is Altair going from his constant moans, or the way his short fingernails are probably leaving angry red lines down his back.

Altair lunges up and the kiss nearly splits his lip open as he cries out. The sound barely muffled by their lips. The glide of Malik's dick gets smoother as Altair comes between them. Hot spurts of come that make him groan into the kiss as he snaps his hips forward faster. Malik pulls away and gasps for air as he drives down against Altair twice more before following suit. Shooting what feels like a good portion of his mind out before slumping down to pant into the hollow of Altair's neck.

It’s embarrassingly fast but the fact Altair lost it first is mollifying. As is the fact that he’s still holding tight to Malik’s back. Not letting go, and not seeming to mind Malik's full weight pinning him down in a position that has to be growing uncomfortable for him.

_Fuck it out of your system._

Kadar is a lying little shit. Malik realizes this as he finally pushes himself up onto his knees and gets a good look at Altair laid out below him. He's been fucked stupid going by the blissed out grin on his face. The robe is sweated through in patches, irreparably wrinkled, and thoroughly stained with both of their semen. His dick limp is and laying against his thigh, one leg still spread wide.

It's an inviting image that makes Malik want to do this again. Preferably soon and repeatedly. Going by the hungry look Altair gives him it's a very mutual feeling.

"Let's eat," Altair's voice is wrecked when he sits up. Arms winding around Malik as he presses a lazy open mouthed kiss to his neck. Not moving away to follow his plan even as he voices it. "And then go to bed so you can fuck me properly."

Malik's made a huge mistake. Altair's too far under his skin for him to simply fuck away. He doesn't _want_ to give this up now. Malik pulls the hood back up over Altair's head. "You're keeping this on."

Altair's grin is slow, filthy, and does horrible things to Malik's mind.


End file.
